


keep the earth below my feet

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8.18 coda, Implied Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things were easier; salt, burn, kill, wipe the blood off your face, take a swig for good measure, go get a girl. When an actual next hunt was his light at the end of the tunnel, but turns out, it’s always been hellfire. A coda to 8.17 and 8.18.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep the earth below my feet

He sometimes wonders how it would feel to get everything – _anything –_ off his chest. Arrange the ugly mess in his own head for Sammy to understand. Put labels and name things he’d rather not know and feel at all. Perhaps it would be liberating. Perhaps shameful.

Dean traces the rim of his glass with his eyes and misses the times when half a bottle of whisky gave him the pleasant, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It seems like a long time ago—it was a long time ago. When things were easier; salt, burn, kill, wipe the blood off your face, take a swig for good measure, go get a girl. When an actual next hunt _was_ his light at the end of the tunnel, but turns out, it’s always been hellfire.

Sammy seems fine, even if the patches of skin under his eyes are too dark for his age. He’s not, but he will be, and Dean will make sure of that or die trying. Just the usual. He shouldn’t be worried about Dean though, no; and Dean has almost slipped up today, almost opened his big mouth. Not liberating after all, definitely, and Sammy doesn’t even fathom the mess in his big brother’s head.

 _“He’ll come back, Dean. He always comes back,”_ Sammy said as the last notes of Supertramp were dying out. A consolation to the unknown.

Dean smiles, chuckles to himself, flips pages in the book before him. Another volume on angels. Another thousand pages of information that gets him nowhere, other than spiralling downwards his own mind, to surprisingly cozy motel room, cartoons on tv and sheets vibrant blue almost tangled between heaven and earth. He downs his whisky in one gulp, pours himself another and pointedly ignores Sam’s eyebrows raised in silent reprimand.

He always comes back, but he never stays. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I had to get out of my system after 8.17 and 8.18 and some enabling talks. Title has been taken from a Mumford & Sons song.


End file.
